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Gone the gentle colors of the earth's spring,
gone from her new-born flowers and green leaves, the lovely scarlet dawn pale, faded, leaves the serene star-filled sky faintly glimmering ... and yet a sense of noble dreams still stirs my soul, roused by his memory, still rich with the light and grace of my beloved I feel his warmth hour after hour. I want to paint on this page what is carved into my heart to awaken thousands of lovers with the flame that is within me. But who can tell of sparkles deep-strewn in the flesh, of breathless anticipation, in me he is warm, strong, alive, all is light. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CVII:107. From B A2:19:65; R:VI:23. Translations: Lefevre-Deumier 77; Therault 143. Key |
